


Turning Point

by SophinaBlackwood



Series: Pride and the Prince [4]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 14:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13765656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophinaBlackwood/pseuds/SophinaBlackwood
Summary: For some reason, Jack is desperate to help Mustafa after their Cruiserweight Championship Tournament match, whether that help is desired or not.





	Turning Point

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you! Spoilerinos if you haven't watched episode 65 yet, you have been warned!

Once the adrenaline wore off, it was clear how much his arm was going to suck for the foreseeable future. If Mustafa doesn't make it to Wrestlemania, it will be because his injured arm will be exploited one of his next two opponents. An injury he had Jack to thank for.

Almost as if the arm was Jack’s insurance. On the chance he didn’t win, at least he could make certain that Mustafa wouldn’t go all the way.

Cruel intentions.

It was like Mustafa never knew him at all.

“How’s it feeling now?” The medic asked. Mustafa blinked back to the present. He was sitting on the edge of the medical room bed. His left arm had been secured in a constricting, awful sling while he’d been spaced out. Before that had been a tetanus shot for his bloody mouth and painkillers that were making him a little loopy.

“Fine,” Mustafa lied, voice monotone and blunt. He couldn’t feel his fingers properly.

The medic looked down at Ali like a disobedient child who’d just been revoked of their video game privileges for two weeks. “Well, you’re all cleared to go straight to your hotel and rest, but I want to have a look at it again before you go home tomorrow, alright?”

Mustafa nodded blankly.

“Cheer up, Ali,” the nurse beside him tried to help. “You look like you lost.”

Mustafa didn’t feel like much of a winner right now.

Behind him, he heard the door open and the voice that followed sent triggering chills up Mustafa’s spine.

“Mind if we have a few moments alone, gentleman?”

The medic and the nurse glanced to each other. “We were just leaving.” One leant down by Mustafa’s ear to murmur, “If you don’t want to see him, we can--”

“It’s fine,” Mustafa said quietly.

Within a minute, the medical staff had packed up their tools and supplies and promptly left the room. Mustafa slumped a little deeper in his seat, keeping his eyes trained at the bottom edge of a nearby cabinet, where the paint was peeling away. In his peripheral, Jack placed a chair in front of him and sat down. Mustafa couldn’t look at him. He was already nauseas enough.

“Everyone’s already gone back,” Jack said. Said it as if they hadn’t been avoiding each other for the past five months. As if they hadn’t just had a match where Jack tried to break him, physically and emotionally.

Mustafa’s brow twitched, but he otherwise didn’t move.

“You’re mad at me,” Jack surmised.

 _No shit_.

“I only did what I had to do,” Jack sighed, not put off by Mustafa’s silence. “Mr. Maverick gave me an ultimatum. And, I’ll remind you that this is a competition. You _know_ I wasn’t going to lie down for you.”

Mustafa bristled, holding his good arm over the sling protectively. There was a difference between competition and what Jack did. There were times during the match when Jack had looked possessed, an ugly hue in his eye, disassembling Mustafa, strategizing how best to target his arm. Like he was a chess board and not a human.

At first, Jack had been languid, almost emotionless. It only took some prodding, a game of one upmanship, and the old Jack came out to play. The one Mustafa used to watch adoringly.

Jack’s teasing, the mockery, the playfulness. It was the old Jack which hurt Mustafa more than anything else. How could it be so that the real him- the one who didn’t hide behind an impassive mask- would fight Mustafa in such a cold-blooded way? To go as far to try and injure him?

Mustafa didn’t want to fight him. Couldn’t Jack see that? Or, maybe he did, and that’s what made him frustrated and brutal, dropkicking Mustafa off the turnbuckle and pounding on him while trapped under the apron. Maybe, if they had to fight, Jack wanted to meet the Mustafa who stood across the ring from Cedric, or the Mustafa who refused to let Neville break his spirit.

But, Mustafa was broken against Jack. Even still, he knew Jack’s game and he knew how to play it, even if he really, _really_ didn’t want to. In the end, with that tiny glimmer of an opening, it was almost too easy to put Jack away after twenty minutes of him trying to dismantle Mustafa.

The worst part was, there wasn’t technically anything wrong with what Jack did. They were athletes and this was a competition. Maverick had been tickled pink by Jack’s _performance_ , despite his loss. Mustafa didn’t get anything more than a curt handshake and a “thank you” before he was ushered away by the medical staff.

“Are you so frightened of me that you refuse to speak?” Jack asked, wounded. Well that was rich coming from him, considering.

In a fit of bubbling anger, Mustafa got to his feet, grimacing, but didn’t expect the consequential rush of blood to his brain, and the world spun under his feet. Everything became static, his vision, his blood, his mind. He wasn’t too sure how long he was like that, or what was happening when he felt himself materializing back to the present, save that something warm was pressed to his side. _Oh._ Jack had him in a protective embrace, keeping him upright.

“Mustafa, you’re not okay,” Jack observed seriously, and rightly so. “I’m going to assist you back to your hotel room, alright?”

Mustafa didn’t respond. He also didn’t fight back as Jack escorted the two of them back to the locker room to collect their things. So out of it was he, Mustafa wasn’t even sure if he got all his belongings together or not, and instead found himself slung over Jack’s shoulder, the two of them slowly making their way out of the arena.

There was too much to look at, too many colours to process as roadies ran all over the place, loading up WWE’s travelling circus into the giant trucks lined in the loading bay. Suddenly, Mustafa was very glad Jack was carrying him, because he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to navigate otherwise.

Painkillers and exhaustion settling in, Mustafa must have zoned out for a considerable period of time, because when he focused in on his surroundings, he was no longer sure where they were and he jolted frightfully.

“It’s okay, Mustafa!” Jack reasoned, coming into view. Why did he look so.. _concerned_? “We’re in the elevator at your hotel. You’re almost in your room. Stay with me, chap.”

Mustafa’s heart thumped oddly as Jack helped him to his room. How did Jack even figure out where he was staying, what room he was in? There were so many questions that he couldn’t even attempt to voice if he wanted to.

“Sit down here,” Jack ordered, and Mustafa could do nothing else but comply, and slumped on the edge of the bed to hang his throbbing head in his hand. _Why are you doing this?_ he wondered, some parts grateful (in a guilty sort of way), but mostly furious. If Jack thought he was going to be forgiven for one night of hospitality, he was going to be seriously disappointed.

Jack was knelt in front of him, a change of Mustafa’s clothes folded in his hands. Mustafa looked over to his luggage by the door, and low and behold, it had been opened and slightly rifled through.

“You’re being very petulant,” Jack said, a twinge of humour to his tone. “Never heard you be so quiet in your life.”

Mustafa turned his attention back to stare at Jack, exhausted, betrayed, broken.

Jack sighed. “Please, just, have a shower and then I’ll get out of your hair. Promise,” he said, gesturing to Mustafa’s arm. “Pass me your sling.” Turning to look at a painting on the wall, Mustafa allowed Jack to remove the sling from his arm, only hissing once when the material tugged on his socket. He tried to flex his fingers. They twitched in response, but he was still numb from shoulder to wrist.

“Do you, uh,” Jack bit his lip, holding onto the change of clothes awkwardly. “Do you need help?” His eyes subconsciously flicked towards the bathroom.

Feeling his stomach turn over uncomfortably, Mustafa shook his head and took the clothes with his good hand. Slowly, carefully, he somehow made it into the shower by himself. The water was heavenly against his skin, though it didn’t wash away the pain from the match. Shower pattering down on him, it was difficult not to feel vacant and disassociated from reality, Mustafa having to slap himself on the face at least three times to keep himself from falling asleep. He wasn’t sure why Jack was so fucking insistent on making sure he was okay, considering he was literally trying to break him a few hours earlier. It was all difficult to process in his current state.

Maybe tomorrow would be easier.

When he felt like he could barely keep his eyes open for another second, Mustafa shut the faucet off, awkwardly toweled himself down with one hand and slipped into the sweatpants Jack had provided him (forgoing the shirt to save the trouble, and his hurting shoulder). Exiting the bathroom, he looked up and was genuinely surprised to see that Jack was still there, sitting on the side of the bed, hands wrung together so tightly his knuckles were white.

Mustafa leaned against the doorframe, closing his eyes to inhale deeply. _Just go away. Let me be._

“Come to bed, Mustafa,” Jack said.

Mustafa bristled at the affectionate, suggestive tone. His eyes shot open and stared at Jack, as furious as his weakened form would allow.

“Come to bed, so I know you’re safe. Then, I’ll go,” Jack reiterated, looking guilty.

To tired to summon up a glare, Mustafa wobbled over to the bed and carefully collapsed onto the sheets. Jack kept an appropriate distance, only aiding to pull back the covers. Mustafa positioned himself with a silent grimace, sitting up against the headboard and finally allowed himself to relax. Slowly, a burning soreness spead all over, especially in his neck and arm. Mustafa groaned, cradling the limb against his chest.

“Do you need anything? Painkillers?” Jack asked. Mustafa shook his head tiredly. “I’ve put water just here if you need it."

Mustafa glanced over to the bedside table. Jack had set up a glass of water, a bottle of water and some pills that looked like painkillers and nausea aids. Mustafa was unnerved by the level of hospitality.

An awkward silence swallowed up the room. It was clear that Jack didn’t want to leave, despite saying he was going to leave multiple times. He’d already dwardled until the absolute last possible moment. Jack fingered the collar of his shirt uncomfortably, then ran his hands through his hair with a choked exhale.

“I’ll be off now... if you want.”

Mustafa started at the palm of his good hand, flexing it silently.

“Goodnight, Mustafa,” Jack whispered, disappointed, and turned to leave.

Impulsively, Mustafa reached out and gripped Jack’s wrist. Jack paused and looked back, eyebrows raised, expression far too vulnerable. Mustafa stared back, anguished. He was sore, lonely, and weak and, no, he didn’t want to be alone tonight. Jack’s the closest thing he has right now, and it’s wrong- _so wrong_ \- but what more damage could one night possibly do?

“I can stay?” Jack choked out.

Mustafa didn’t know what else to do. He blinked hard and nodded.

Jack had to loosen and removed his tie with one hand because Mustafa wouldn’t let go of his wrist. It was pulled it over his head, messing up his hair, making him look painfully handsome. When Jack turned off the bedside lamp and climbed onto the bed to lay at Mustafa’s side, Mustafa could actually feel the pulse beneath his fingers as he pressed Jack’s palm against his cheek. Jack inhaled sensitively.

Warm.

Safe.

Mustafa reminded himself this was the same person who attempted to dismantle him not a few hours earlier.

Conscious of his wrecked arm, Mustafa wiggled down and laid his head carefully upon Jack’s clothed chest, nestling his head under the gentleman’s smooth jaw. It was depressingly familiar. Just like old times when they’d sneak like teenagers into each other’s hotel rooms, cuddle, kiss, and stay up for all hours of the night, chatting until they fell asleep, entwined in each other’s arms.

Mustafa had wanted to know about Jack. Every tiny detail, no matter how small. He wanted to paint a firm picture in his mind so whenever he flew back to lonely nights in Chicago, he would never be able to dispel Jack from his subconscious.

That’s why it was crushing, when Jack walked away from him that awful September night; the months that followed when Jack refused to acknowledge his existence; as Jack unceremoniously dumped him and his damaged arm upside-down onto the barricade.

Mustafa had nearly drifted off to sleep when he registered something wet on his hairline. Jack’s chest jerked sharply, once, twice. Predictably, Mustafa’s heart softened, and, though hadn’t forgiven him, decided he had tormented Jack enough with the silent treatment.

“Why are you crying?” Mustafa asked, voice scratchy-sounding.

Jack whimpered in surprise, near soundlessly, as if he hadn’t expected Mustafa to still be awake. He wiped at his face roughly.

“I missed this,” Jack confessed. “I didn’t realise just how much I.. I missed you.”

Mustafa craned his neck to look up at the underside of Jack’s chin, watching him stare at the ceiling shamefully.

“Hey, I adored you,” Mustafa whispered, feeling his cheeks heat up and his veins simmer. “Still do, you know. Even when you beat me up.” The tiniest smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Jack hid his tears and blotchy face with his arm, muffling a sob only a little. “I’ve been a fool.”

“This is true, yes,” Mustafa agreed, and he could see the corners of Jack’s mouth turn downward at that.

“I regret that I underestimated you,” Jack said. “You’re a better man than me, in every possible way. The worst thing I’ve ever done was leave you alone in that hallway.”

“Worse than trying to rip my arm out?” Mustafa raised a brow.

Jack groaned, pinching the last remaining tears out his eyes and wiping them down on his slacks. Moonlight streamed from the window across Jack’s swollen, puffy lips, making them look more like soft petals rather than human flesh.

“You tease me, Jack,” Mustafa mumbled. He felt sick to his stomach with longing.

“Tease you how?” Jack wondered.

“You tempt me with everything I’ve ever wanted.” Mustafa cursed himself for sounding so needy. “I’m not strong enough to resist you.”

“ _Moose.._ ”

“You handsome scoundrel,” Mustafa grinned in spite of himself, a sultry smirk.

Jack flushed, glancing away bashfully. “Oh go on, you.”

Mustafa pulled himself by his good elbow until they were hip to hip. Jack’s hand that was around his shoulder slid down around his side, squeezing fondly. Jack’s eyes sought out and held Mustafa’s, creating a shared, heavy gaze between them that went on a long time.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Jack said breathlessly, pupils blown in the moonlight.

Mustafa bowed his neck to kiss Jack, and Jack responded without complaint. His busted lip seared with pain but he didn’t care, not if he was going to get Jack for one more night.

Though Mustafa had no movement in his arms, Jack seemed eager to touch every part of him available, and then some. Jack shifted to rearrange so Mustafa could lie on his back, allowing himself to be pliant in Jack’s hands. Jack straddled one leg over Mustafa’s thigh and pressed a kiss down to Mustafa once more, humming softly.

Finally with a free arm, Mustafa responded in kind, threading his fingers into Jack’s ginger locks. His hand slid down Jack’s firm neck, onto his shoulders, then came back to tug at his shirt collar, unhooking the top button.

Jack pulled away to exhale, overwhelmed. Mustafa gazed up at him, amazed. Just yesterday, it seemed impossible that they could ever be like this again. Those faraway times when the whole world seemed to be bathed in a rosy, warm light. As if the war which had transpired inside the ring not a few hours earlier was nothing more than a terrible, terrible nightmare.

 _We should be talking about this_ , Mustafa thought, as Jack grinned at him admiringly through half lids, then dipped down to press his hot, wet mouth against the flesh of Mustafa’s sore neck, sucking slowly, tenderly. _We need to talk about what this means, what’s going to happen tomorr--_

" _Nnh_. I- Jack, I-" Mustafa said aloud, helplessly, the pleasure so unexpected and so intense that he felt paralyzed by it. It had been nearly half a year since he’d held Jack in his arms, and his very soul was stirred at the sensation. “Oh Jack, _Jack._ ”

Mustafa’s knee was between Jack’s thighs, and could feel Jack stiffening with each little whimper and moan that escaped Mustafa.

“Divine,” Jack mumbled delightedly against his shoulder bone.

“What is?” Mustafa nearly choked on his own breath as Jack ran a hand over his stomach, pad of his thumb massaging circles into his abdomen.

“You are,” Jack kissed a trail down his sternum. “Unquestionably divine.”

Mustafa’s own body shuddered, unused to being the one to receive such one-sided pleasure. He took great pride in giving a partner what they needed, wholeheartedly, unconditionally yielding his mind and his body to them. That was temporarily impossible because right now every inch of him ached, his arm was useless and numb, his mind distant and his penis barely responsive. And yet, with each tender kiss Jack pressed to him, Mustafa felt bit by bit closer to becoming whole again.

Jack was whispering something against Mustafa’s skin, raising goosebumps, and Mustafa had to wrap a hand around Jack’s chin to still him, bringing their eyes together. “What’s that?” Mustafa asked, heart thumping.

Jack held his gaze, a red band across his cheeks. “ _I never thought I’d keep a record of my pain,_ ” Jack said softly, kissing Mustafa’s pecs. “ _or happiness._ ” Kissing Mustafa’s bicep. “ _like candles lighting the entire soft lace._ ” Kissing each finger of Mustafa’s hand, draped over his own stomach. It was then Mustafa realised, excitedly, that Jack was reciting something. “ _of the--_ ”

“Jack,” Mustafa blinked hard, shakily unbuttoning Jack’s shirt with one hand to run his fingertips over the skin of his chest. “Oh god, keep going.”

Jack smiled, flattening himself down to lick, kiss and nip against the skin of Mustafa’s tummy as he continued-

“ _\--of the air_  
_around the full length of your hair/a shower_  
_organized by God_  
_in brown and auburn_  
_undulations luminous like particles  
__of flame._ ”

Mustafa moaned, rocking into Jack’s body, his neck relaxing back against the pillow. His hand moved back up to thread through Jack’s hair, biting down his own bottom lip to keep a clear mind, just so he could listen to Jack’s honeyed words.

“ _But now I do,_ ” Jack went on. “ _retrieve an afternoon of apricots_  
_and water interspersed with cigarettes_  
_and sand and rocks_  
_we walked across:_  
_How easily you held_  
_my hand_  
_beside the low tide  
__of the world_.”

“ _God,_ you’re so--” But Mustafa couldn’t think of an adjective apt enough, his voice ragged and low. " _Oh_ , oh, m-my _god_ , _Jack_ ," Mustafa moaned as Jack pressed his lips against the fabric that constrained his somewhat awake erection. Jack didn’t seem to mind that Mustafa couldn’t get completely hard right now, still kissing the outline of his cock, laying first his soft lips, then his tongue against the fabric. Mustafa could feel everything, the warmth of Jack’s mouth and every tiny, minute swipe of his tongue. “ _Yes, d-don’t stop._ ”

Whether he meant the poetry, or Jack’s mouth working him into a stupor, it didn’t matter, as Jack somehow continued to do _both_ simultaneously.

“ _Now I do_  
_relive an evening of retreat_  
_a bridge I left behind_  
_where all the solid heat_  
_of lust and tender trembling_  
_lay as cruel and as kind_  
_as passion spins its infinite_  
_tergiversations in between the bitter  
__and the sweet._ ”

It was absolutely too much now, moans leaving Mustafa’s throat with reckless abandon. All the sensations were leaving him uninhibited, completely at the mercy of Jack’s touch, Jack’s poetry, Jack’s tongue...

_Jack’s love._

He must have sensed how overwhelmed Mustafa was, because Jack mercifully dragged himself back up Mustafa’s damp, heaving body, erection drawing a line up to his hip. Jack licked and bit gently at Mustafa’s ear- the same mouth which had been on his cock a second ago- hot breath making Mustafa shiver and croon.

“ _Alone and longing for you  
__now I do._ ”

Jack whispered the final line into Mustafa’s ear, and not even Jack’s eloquent words could describe the low sound Mustafa made, making him gasp, interior muscles flexing against Jack, who hummed sweetly at his handiwork.  
  
It was sad. Sad and beautiful. Just like them.

The silent air was thick in place of Jack’s poem and the movement of the air-conditioning was comforting, as was Jack’s presence, who had come to nestle against Mustafa’s side, sharing the pillow, caressing Mustafa’s hairy jaw idly.

Mustafa was beginning to recover his breath- but still his voice shook, when he said, “Did you write that?”

“Yes,” Jack said softly. “About us.”

“Ah. _God,_ ” Mustafa’s voice broke as he pressed the heel of his palm to his face, feeling moisture already bubbling out of his eyes. “Jack?”

“Yes, darling?”

But no words came to Mustafa.

“Sleep, Moose.”

Jack put his arms around him, mercifully careful of the injured arm, and kissed Mustafa’s temple. Mustafa leaned into the touch, enjoying the feeling of being pressed against Jack, in case it was no longer there when he woke up tomorrow. A dark thread of worry was trying to invade his mind, but it was faint against the beat of Jack’s heart, which Mustafa was close enough to feel.

Jack murmured something against Mustafa’s cheek, barely above a whisper.

“Hm?” Mustafa asked, drowsily.

But Jack never replied, and, soon, without realizing it, Mustafa too was asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY, SO LIKE.. I thought their match was going to be super heated and angry and I was going to write some Real Angry Sex like [kinderhook's amazing Drew/Tony fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13725498), but NO. Their match was fucking _sad_ and this fic somehow ended up happy???
> 
> I don't know fam, I'm real confused. But let me know if you liked this, despite the strange direction it took.
> 
> Also, hey, if Jack and Mustafa end up feuding then I'll definitely keep adding to this series- how exciting!
> 
> The poem is Poem for Haruko by queer poet June Jordan (but we're just gonna pretend that Jack wrote it because there is no way in hell I'm writing poetry for a fic lmao).


End file.
